I shared my plan with a chosen few, one of them was the husband. In the sharing came the voiced words. When spoken aloud, they took the intangible and made it real. In ways not understood, somehow in the speaking and in the simultaneous hearing, the plan became clearer, more certain, more alive. Authenticity could be felt, almost grasped. So I took a hold of that plan and through the spoken word, I became committed.
For seventy-five days I have read His words whispered quiet to my heart. I read familiar of the first man, and of the blessing of Abraham. I read of the Christ-type sacrifice of Isaac and of the wrestling match of Jacob. I read of the softened heart of Joseph and of the humble heart of Moses. And now, I sit overlooking the Jordan waiting to cross into the Promise Land.
These life words I have read in the morning with coffee and the breaking of bread. I have read them in the afternoon while preparing the dinner meal. Even while young girls find first position in dance, I have read these words.
And often, rather almost always, I have read these words silent.
And then one evening, within the quiet of home, I decided to read these words aloud. And in all my life I can't remember reading anything so beautiful. The sound of His words echoing from the walls around me. My voice brushing against the silence with sacred messages. I felt like I could reach out and grasp a hold of the very Word of God.
Can speaking His words aloud make them more tangible? Can hearing His words with simple voice drive them deeper into the heart? Is my faith grown further by the audibility of His truth? Faith comes from hearing, and hearing from the Word of God. {Romans 10:17}
Daily speaking, hearing, reading, grasping. Can I daily have His words committed upon my heart, cradled in the center of my hand? Carried around through each mundane moment? Available for clenching and clinging to when the inevitable desperation comes?
May His words be continually hidden in my heart so that when the Book is not close by, His Words are still near, ready to be recited for the speaking and for the hearing.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
A Simple Way to Say I Love Him
He made the request awhile ago. I never heeded his wishes.
Do the words really need to be spoken? Do they really need to be heard aloud? Doesn't he know it, without me having to speak it into the space between us?
It is the simplest of requests, "Can you tell me that I'm handsome?"
Even now, I smile and breath a laugh of unbelief, that this is all that he has asked and I have neglected.
Daily he tells me that I am beautiful, sweet, amazing. And I tell him too that he is wonderful and that I am grateful for all that he is, and does. Yet somehow that word "handsome" doesn't pass through my lips, and I'm not sure why.
Us women love to be told that we're the prettiest girl this side of the Pacific. Maybe our men need to hear that confirmation too.
So this past Valentine's, my forever vow was to utter that unspoken word daily.
A "Good morning, Handsome" will make his day. Every day.
Do the words really need to be spoken? Do they really need to be heard aloud? Doesn't he know it, without me having to speak it into the space between us?
It is the simplest of requests, "Can you tell me that I'm handsome?"
Even now, I smile and breath a laugh of unbelief, that this is all that he has asked and I have neglected.
Daily he tells me that I am beautiful, sweet, amazing. And I tell him too that he is wonderful and that I am grateful for all that he is, and does. Yet somehow that word "handsome" doesn't pass through my lips, and I'm not sure why.
Us women love to be told that we're the prettiest girl this side of the Pacific. Maybe our men need to hear that confirmation too.
So this past Valentine's, my forever vow was to utter that unspoken word daily.
A "Good morning, Handsome" will make his day. Every day.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Bed Time Can Wait When Hearts are Changing
She finds me at the top of the stairs, tidying up forgotten board books and stuffed puppies, hoping to draw this day to a close. She shows me the picture in the magazine. The one that daddy showed the night before when complaints about dinner arose. A classroom of school children sitting in desks with eyes forlorn and arms of skin and bones. She asks me to tell her about it again. I sit on the bottom step and she sits next to me, eager to hear about the starving souls and starving bodies in a far away place called North Korea. I ask her, "Can you imagine?", she shakes her head, "No". Sister comes and sits next to her to listen too.
My words sound inadequate to me as they stutter, sharing frightful realities to child ears. I ask them, "Why did God allow you to be born here in this country?". The younger answers, "Because He knew that you and daddy could handle it.". I smile and prod deeper, "Yes, but why were you not born to a mama and daddy who didn't have money to feed you, like so many other children are?" I can see their eyes fill with deep thinking, and then with understanding, realizing that they are the privileged.
I think about when we pray the words, "Thank you for this food", and say them with haphazard care, not thinking about gratefulness at all, but rather of almost anything else. Can we practice speaking "thank you" with desperate humility?
Thank. You. For. This. Food.
Thank. You. For. This. Food.
I prod further, rhetorically, not expecting a response, "Are you ever uncomfortable? Are you ever without?" They shake their heads, both knowing. "What is your responsibility?... Mama's been thinking about this too?... What is our responsibility since we have so much and others have so little?... Just think about it ..."
Pajamas are slipped on and oldest slips downstairs. I know she has a mission. I finish the hair braids and teeth brushing, gifting the mission hearted one with time to act and do. With enough moments passed, I slowly round the bottom of the staircase and see the work done. A paper card with a paper pocket filled with coins and labelled "money". A rainbow bright on the facing side with a sunshine smiling down. She says it's for Uwizeymana, her Compassion sister friend in Rwanda. I nod with understanding. She's learning and figuring this out, and acting as her heart leads.
Can I learn from her? And act a little more, do a little more? Can I see my responsibility and act upon it too?
My words sound inadequate to me as they stutter, sharing frightful realities to child ears. I ask them, "Why did God allow you to be born here in this country?". The younger answers, "Because He knew that you and daddy could handle it.". I smile and prod deeper, "Yes, but why were you not born to a mama and daddy who didn't have money to feed you, like so many other children are?" I can see their eyes fill with deep thinking, and then with understanding, realizing that they are the privileged.
I think about when we pray the words, "Thank you for this food", and say them with haphazard care, not thinking about gratefulness at all, but rather of almost anything else. Can we practice speaking "thank you" with desperate humility?
Thank. You. For. This. Food.
Thank. You. For. This. Food.
I prod further, rhetorically, not expecting a response, "Are you ever uncomfortable? Are you ever without?" They shake their heads, both knowing. "What is your responsibility?... Mama's been thinking about this too?... What is our responsibility since we have so much and others have so little?... Just think about it ..."
Pajamas are slipped on and oldest slips downstairs. I know she has a mission. I finish the hair braids and teeth brushing, gifting the mission hearted one with time to act and do. With enough moments passed, I slowly round the bottom of the staircase and see the work done. A paper card with a paper pocket filled with coins and labelled "money". A rainbow bright on the facing side with a sunshine smiling down. She says it's for Uwizeymana, her Compassion sister friend in Rwanda. I nod with understanding. She's learning and figuring this out, and acting as her heart leads.
Can I learn from her? And act a little more, do a little more? Can I see my responsibility and act upon it too?
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Love Tied Up in Prayers
At sixteen, someone told her that there was a boy out there - just for her. A boy who would one day be her husband man. And so she prayed for that boy not knowing who he was, or where he was, or what he may be doing - she had blind faith for an unknown love.
At twenty, she met that boy. His dorm room wall ran parallel with hers. Although she didn't know it then, she began to whisper desperate prayers for him. For she was reading the book of Acts filled with words about those "men of God" who turned the world upside down. And she couldn't help but pray for the man next door who needed God to turn his world upside down.
At twenty-two, that boy went cross-country setting his wings soaring, fulfilling those flight dreams that suffocated him, yet simultaneously gave him life. His dreams began long before that sixteen-year old girl stuttered shy prayers while sitting in the seat of a Volkswagen Beetle. Six years had past and that same girl still uttered prayers, but with bolder words, knowing in her depths that he was the one, the forever boy.
At twenty-three, that boy returned and she asked him, "What about us?", and he answered "Yes", turning her world upside down. Together they tried to figure out this thing called love ~ Praying hard because it is hard to love in the world in a way that is right, and good, and honourable.
At twenty-five, he set her heart soaring. She read the words "I love you more, everyday" from the window of that wee plane. And later, while saying the promising "yes" she knew that this was a prayer answered. Holding hands with one glittering finger, they uttered prayers for the unknown, for real love is a mystery and promises to take the path less travelled.
At twenty-six, they said their forever promises and floated through the day with undying smiles transpired by the guests and the gifts and the words of wild love. And they spoke to each other in front of all the witnesses announcing that this day had been grown out of many giddy and whispered prayers of love brand new, and out of many cried out and desperate prayers for a love branded with truth.
And just last night in the warmth of the marriage bed, with his shoulder rising with sleep, she mouthed out silent thanks for the grace given and allowed tears to slide for the purpose of the man next to her. For almost nine years the days have proven the need for the thread of prayer to weave through the years of this love life. May this thread weave long, and thick, and unbroken. For someone wise once wrote that a cord of three-strands is not easily broken.
At twenty, she met that boy. His dorm room wall ran parallel with hers. Although she didn't know it then, she began to whisper desperate prayers for him. For she was reading the book of Acts filled with words about those "men of God" who turned the world upside down. And she couldn't help but pray for the man next door who needed God to turn his world upside down.
At twenty-two, that boy went cross-country setting his wings soaring, fulfilling those flight dreams that suffocated him, yet simultaneously gave him life. His dreams began long before that sixteen-year old girl stuttered shy prayers while sitting in the seat of a Volkswagen Beetle. Six years had past and that same girl still uttered prayers, but with bolder words, knowing in her depths that he was the one, the forever boy.
At twenty-three, that boy returned and she asked him, "What about us?", and he answered "Yes", turning her world upside down. Together they tried to figure out this thing called love ~ Praying hard because it is hard to love in the world in a way that is right, and good, and honourable.
At twenty-five, he set her heart soaring. She read the words "I love you more, everyday" from the window of that wee plane. And later, while saying the promising "yes" she knew that this was a prayer answered. Holding hands with one glittering finger, they uttered prayers for the unknown, for real love is a mystery and promises to take the path less travelled.
At twenty-six, they said their forever promises and floated through the day with undying smiles transpired by the guests and the gifts and the words of wild love. And they spoke to each other in front of all the witnesses announcing that this day had been grown out of many giddy and whispered prayers of love brand new, and out of many cried out and desperate prayers for a love branded with truth.
And just last night in the warmth of the marriage bed, with his shoulder rising with sleep, she mouthed out silent thanks for the grace given and allowed tears to slide for the purpose of the man next to her. For almost nine years the days have proven the need for the thread of prayer to weave through the years of this love life. May this thread weave long, and thick, and unbroken. For someone wise once wrote that a cord of three-strands is not easily broken.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
A New Year - The Year of His Word
I am naming this year, thanks to Ann.
For the first time I am giving a New Year a name. Not a resolution that will dissolve in failure by mid-January, but a name of meaning, a theme of sorts, to help guide my way through the next 365 days.
In November, I began to pray and ponder for the name of this year. I was memorizing Psalm, chapter one verses one to three, and these words became etched in my mind, "in His law he meditated day and night" and "and whatever he does shall prosper".
And then one Sunday morning, I sat listening in the pew and the words from Joshua, chapter one were read from the pulpit: "This Book of the Law shall not depart from your mouth, but you shall meditate in it day and night, that you may observe to do according to all that is written in it. For then you will make your way prosperous, and then you will have good success."
Meditating on God's Words day and night and prospering? For to be spiritually rich, spilling over with Him and bathing in His graces is great success. For the effort put into each day, into each word spoken, into each act done, that all that would be worthwhile guided by His Word. To reap a full harvest due to sowing in his Word? How prosperous can a girl be?
And so, I began to pray and ponder for the meaning of meditating day and night, for I am a mother of four, and a teacher and wife, and laundry and lessons and meals to feed hungry tummies don't allow for quiet moments of meditation easily.
But what if His Word was hidden in my heart and I could say it aloud as I stirred the soup? And what if the Lord's Prayer and Psalm 23 could be spoken aloud when moments of stress broke forth and harsh words threatened to break the peace? And what if His word was printed on cards and posted above the kitchen sink and on the computer's edge and on the window sill and around the bathroom mirror to remind me of His graces and mercies? And what if I actually read His Word every day, the same passages as listed in the back of my starting-to-get-worn Bible, and read His Word fully during this year? And what if I encouraged others through encouraging messages of scripture by sending card creations by mail? And what if I memorized passages of scripture to hide within my heart and husband donated a coin or two to the poor and needy for each verse recited? And couldn't I find time to put on an online sermon or two, every now and then, to fill my heart and mind and soul with His Word?
This is the Year of His Word. And by His strength I will learn to meditate on it day and night. And I pray to be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth fruit in its season, whose leaf shall not wither.
Lord, may You hide your Word in my heart, make it a part of who I am, moment by moment through each day of this year.
For the first time I am giving a New Year a name. Not a resolution that will dissolve in failure by mid-January, but a name of meaning, a theme of sorts, to help guide my way through the next 365 days.
In November, I began to pray and ponder for the name of this year. I was memorizing Psalm, chapter one verses one to three, and these words became etched in my mind, "in His law he meditated day and night" and "and whatever he does shall prosper".
And then one Sunday morning, I sat listening in the pew and the words from Joshua, chapter one were read from the pulpit: "This Book of the Law shall not depart from your mouth, but you shall meditate in it day and night, that you may observe to do according to all that is written in it. For then you will make your way prosperous, and then you will have good success."
Meditating on God's Words day and night and prospering? For to be spiritually rich, spilling over with Him and bathing in His graces is great success. For the effort put into each day, into each word spoken, into each act done, that all that would be worthwhile guided by His Word. To reap a full harvest due to sowing in his Word? How prosperous can a girl be?
And so, I began to pray and ponder for the meaning of meditating day and night, for I am a mother of four, and a teacher and wife, and laundry and lessons and meals to feed hungry tummies don't allow for quiet moments of meditation easily.
But what if His Word was hidden in my heart and I could say it aloud as I stirred the soup? And what if the Lord's Prayer and Psalm 23 could be spoken aloud when moments of stress broke forth and harsh words threatened to break the peace? And what if His word was printed on cards and posted above the kitchen sink and on the computer's edge and on the window sill and around the bathroom mirror to remind me of His graces and mercies? And what if I actually read His Word every day, the same passages as listed in the back of my starting-to-get-worn Bible, and read His Word fully during this year? And what if I encouraged others through encouraging messages of scripture by sending card creations by mail? And what if I memorized passages of scripture to hide within my heart and husband donated a coin or two to the poor and needy for each verse recited? And couldn't I find time to put on an online sermon or two, every now and then, to fill my heart and mind and soul with His Word?
This is the Year of His Word. And by His strength I will learn to meditate on it day and night. And I pray to be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth fruit in its season, whose leaf shall not wither.
Lord, may You hide your Word in my heart, make it a part of who I am, moment by moment through each day of this year.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Christmas Contradictions - What's My Responsibility in a Hurting World?
Christmas night, after the children are swaddled under comforters, eyes and voices still glowing from celebration, we sneak away, just he and I. Grandma and Grandpa keep watch over the fading babes and grace us with a few precious moments away.
Our thoughts and words debrief the day. He takes my hand and we try to voice the good and what needs improvements. And we struggle with how to communicate the desires of our hearts with those around us. Traditions run deep and expectations press hard.
Maybe change needs to be slow?
And maybe change begins within oneself before spreading to those around?
We drive around in the big city, the backseat of our mini van sits quiet. His hand covers mine as he looks for a convenience store to purchase a hot drink. He spots one and pulls into the empty parking lot.
A man is slouched, with his own hot drink, up against a garbage can. Another man is standing over him conversing with large gestures, his arms waving in circular motions. A third man stands at the corner looking bored and somewhat abandoned. And a fourth man decides to pay us attention. He moves towards our mini van, sloshing yellow liquid bottled in his right hand. My man instinctively opens the minivan window and presents the drunken man with a "What's up my friend?". He, with prison tattoos garnishing his wrists, responds with an odd coherent ramble. He's angry. He's been hurt. The days of his life have not treated him well. He reaches slowly through the open window. My man takes his hand and calls him "friend" again.
And maybe in a different time, and in a different place, under different circumstances this man could have truly been our friend. About our age, slightly older, wearing a half-grin, probably a great conversationalist. But somehow his life's twists and turns led him to spending Christmas 2010 outside of a convenience store sloshing a bottle of yellow liquid. The comforts of my home flash across my heart and I hurt for this man who rambles on outside our silver mini van.
The men release hands and he rambles about taking a girl out and later about having to kill someone. He reaches through the window again and my man grasps his hand again partly out of precaution and partly out of kindness.
"What do you need, my friend?"
He responds with nonsense words and seems to be running out of rambling words. He backs away from our minivan, calling out, sloshing bottled liquid beside him.
We drive away, my heart wounded for this man and three others like him, spending Christmas at the entrance of a convenience store. I whisper an unsure prayer for the hurting, for the pain. I stare at the passing neon lights through blurring tears wondering about my responsibility of where I am and what I've been given. I thank Him for the grace of the babe cradled within the wooden slates.
I pray for grace revealed in the lives of four men.
Our thoughts and words debrief the day. He takes my hand and we try to voice the good and what needs improvements. And we struggle with how to communicate the desires of our hearts with those around us. Traditions run deep and expectations press hard.
Maybe change needs to be slow?
And maybe change begins within oneself before spreading to those around?
We drive around in the big city, the backseat of our mini van sits quiet. His hand covers mine as he looks for a convenience store to purchase a hot drink. He spots one and pulls into the empty parking lot.
A man is slouched, with his own hot drink, up against a garbage can. Another man is standing over him conversing with large gestures, his arms waving in circular motions. A third man stands at the corner looking bored and somewhat abandoned. And a fourth man decides to pay us attention. He moves towards our mini van, sloshing yellow liquid bottled in his right hand. My man instinctively opens the minivan window and presents the drunken man with a "What's up my friend?". He, with prison tattoos garnishing his wrists, responds with an odd coherent ramble. He's angry. He's been hurt. The days of his life have not treated him well. He reaches slowly through the open window. My man takes his hand and calls him "friend" again.
And maybe in a different time, and in a different place, under different circumstances this man could have truly been our friend. About our age, slightly older, wearing a half-grin, probably a great conversationalist. But somehow his life's twists and turns led him to spending Christmas 2010 outside of a convenience store sloshing a bottle of yellow liquid. The comforts of my home flash across my heart and I hurt for this man who rambles on outside our silver mini van.
The men release hands and he rambles about taking a girl out and later about having to kill someone. He reaches through the window again and my man grasps his hand again partly out of precaution and partly out of kindness.
"What do you need, my friend?"
He responds with nonsense words and seems to be running out of rambling words. He backs away from our minivan, calling out, sloshing bottled liquid beside him.
We drive away, my heart wounded for this man and three others like him, spending Christmas at the entrance of a convenience store. I whisper an unsure prayer for the hurting, for the pain. I stare at the passing neon lights through blurring tears wondering about my responsibility of where I am and what I've been given. I thank Him for the grace of the babe cradled within the wooden slates.
I pray for grace revealed in the lives of four men.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Sacrificial Hands
Her hands tell a story. A story that only she can tell. A story filled with endless hours of labour and caring, fixing and loving, cleaning and giving.
I remember touching her hands as a child and thinking her hands were perfect in spite of her complaints of roughness and chewed nails and cracked finger tips. In time, she let those nails grow, but not too long to stop her work from being done. In time, the roughness catalyzed the wrinkles that no dose of lotions could smooth away. The lines of time criss-crossing their story, etching the moments of her life.
Sometimes I study my own hands and see glimpses of hers in them. The story lines becoming more visible and me wondering when they first began. Was it with the turning of a birthday when a sense of knowing replaced that insecure, finding herself girl? Was it with the birth of the third girl babe adding lengthy nights and early mornings to a continuous routine? Or maybe it was just a deep longing to see a piece of myself in the woman who gave, sacrificed, herself for me?
Sacrificial hands.
His hands. Broken and pierced on my behalf. Carrying the cross to the top of the hill to be the love sacrifice for me. His hands that healed and spread balm for the wounded, that reached for the teary and the desolate. His hands that beckoned the lost and drew near the neglected.
Can my hands be like His? Can I make the effort to carry my cross? Can I soothe the hurts and pains that the fallen world serves out? Can I hold the hand of the lost and the forgotten?
Can my hands bring a sacrifice?
Can my hands be a sacrifice?
I remember touching her hands as a child and thinking her hands were perfect in spite of her complaints of roughness and chewed nails and cracked finger tips. In time, she let those nails grow, but not too long to stop her work from being done. In time, the roughness catalyzed the wrinkles that no dose of lotions could smooth away. The lines of time criss-crossing their story, etching the moments of her life.
Sometimes I study my own hands and see glimpses of hers in them. The story lines becoming more visible and me wondering when they first began. Was it with the turning of a birthday when a sense of knowing replaced that insecure, finding herself girl? Was it with the birth of the third girl babe adding lengthy nights and early mornings to a continuous routine? Or maybe it was just a deep longing to see a piece of myself in the woman who gave, sacrificed, herself for me?
Sacrificial hands.
His hands. Broken and pierced on my behalf. Carrying the cross to the top of the hill to be the love sacrifice for me. His hands that healed and spread balm for the wounded, that reached for the teary and the desolate. His hands that beckoned the lost and drew near the neglected.
Can my hands be like His? Can I make the effort to carry my cross? Can I soothe the hurts and pains that the fallen world serves out? Can I hold the hand of the lost and the forgotten?
Can my hands bring a sacrifice?
Can my hands be a sacrifice?
Monday, December 13, 2010
A Jesse Tree ~ Deepening the Roots of Christmas
In the days leading up to December, the soft whispers of Advent began to prod my heart through the words of others who have gone before me. For me, there was nothing else to do, but to prepare a Jesse Tree, not knowing exactly what to do, but knowing for certain that it needed to be done. The thought of preparing for His coming in stillness and quietness and prayer, seemed all too inviting as the hustle and bustle of the twelfth month drew nearer.
And so, we began to grow our Jesse Tree. Not knowing how deep it's roots would go.
As the last bites of dinner are being downed, I bring out The Jesus Storybook Bible, the candle lighter and the flute. At first it felt awkward leading the children and the fine husband through a somewhat ceremonious event. But now, halfway through Advent, the quietness and meditation is expected, and today could not turn into tomorrow without the hanging of the symbol and the saying of The Lord's Prayer.
Do you do a Jesse Tree? I would be so blessed to hear of your traditions. I pray that you will be blessed by ours...
*******************************************
We start out by reading aloud,
Then the candle is lit. Each week of Advent another candle is lit so that there are 4 candles by Christmas. As the coming of Christ draws nearer, the light gets brighter, for He is the Light of the world!
A story is read from The Jesus Storybook Bible: Every story whispers his name. This book is filled with the stories of the Bible with each story ending with a small passage pointing to Jesus the Saviour. This book is perfect for the young ages of my children.
The Jesse Tree symbol is then hung on a smaller tree that rests on the dining table. After six symbols are hung, they are transferred to the grand Christmas tree. The symbols were drawn and painted by myself and my girls, and then coloured photocopied to create a finished look.
The Lord's Prayer is spoken.
A carol is played on the flute and then sung.
The candle is blown out while the anticipation of His coming fills our hearts.
**********************************************
Some helpful Jesse Tree links:
What is a Jesse Tree? - Some history about the Jesse Tree.
Making a Jesse Tree - There are printable ornaments available at this site with corresponding scripture readings.
And so, we began to grow our Jesse Tree. Not knowing how deep it's roots would go.
As the last bites of dinner are being downed, I bring out The Jesus Storybook Bible, the candle lighter and the flute. At first it felt awkward leading the children and the fine husband through a somewhat ceremonious event. But now, halfway through Advent, the quietness and meditation is expected, and today could not turn into tomorrow without the hanging of the symbol and the saying of The Lord's Prayer.
Do you do a Jesse Tree? I would be so blessed to hear of your traditions. I pray that you will be blessed by ours...
*******************************************
We start out by reading aloud,
"Jesus Christ, You are the Light of the world that no darkness can overcome; for darkness is as light with You. Keep us from sin and straighten our path, so that we may be prepared for Your coming. Amen."
Then the candle is lit. Each week of Advent another candle is lit so that there are 4 candles by Christmas. As the coming of Christ draws nearer, the light gets brighter, for He is the Light of the world!
A story is read from The Jesus Storybook Bible: Every story whispers his name. This book is filled with the stories of the Bible with each story ending with a small passage pointing to Jesus the Saviour. This book is perfect for the young ages of my children.
The Jesse Tree symbol is then hung on a smaller tree that rests on the dining table. After six symbols are hung, they are transferred to the grand Christmas tree. The symbols were drawn and painted by myself and my girls, and then coloured photocopied to create a finished look.
The Lord's Prayer is spoken.
A carol is played on the flute and then sung.
The candle is blown out while the anticipation of His coming fills our hearts.
**********************************************
Some helpful Jesse Tree links:
What is a Jesse Tree? - Some history about the Jesse Tree.
Making a Jesse Tree - There are printable ornaments available at this site with corresponding scripture readings.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Something's Yearning - A Pull of the Heart Strings
I have a yearning lately. It's pulling my heart strings. Making me think and rethink all that I have thought in days past. It's refining me, and refinishing me, and scraping away the scratches and dullness of time that formed from moments upon moments of accepting complacency and mediocrity and ineffectiveness - all within the cozy corners of my being.
I am surrounded by all that makes my world mine and yet this yearning is drawing me out of my world and making me slightly uncomfortable. I am scared for the unknown. I am stomach-quaking for the risk of baring more than I have before. I am quivering at the knees for a vulnerability revealed. For I am weak. And I am broken.
There is this yearning lately.
Am I not called to be in the world and not of it? And am I not called to be slightly radical?
And yet, I want to be comfortable, not radical.
When I run, I pace myself. I seldom, very seldom press hard. I don't like pain. I don't like discomfort. I want to enjoy my run, not suffer through it.
Is this me through the race of life? Not wanting to face the pain? I voice shallow words without intense conversations. I hold onto the emotions that want to squeeze out of my eyes. I try to ignore the ache that is bursting within my throat. I don't want to be uncomfortable so I don't argue, I play the role of peacemaker, I don't provoke contrariness. I want to blend in.
But there is this yearning lately that pulls and nudges and sometimes yanks every desire for comfort straight right out of me.
Blending in is for the weak.
In Him I am made strong.
Complacency is without purpose.
My plans are empty but His purposes will prevail.
Yearning is for the thirsty.
He calls for the thirsty.
Today I will run harder. Thirst more. Even get a little sweaty.
I am surrounded by all that makes my world mine and yet this yearning is drawing me out of my world and making me slightly uncomfortable. I am scared for the unknown. I am stomach-quaking for the risk of baring more than I have before. I am quivering at the knees for a vulnerability revealed. For I am weak. And I am broken.
There is this yearning lately.
Am I not called to be in the world and not of it? And am I not called to be slightly radical?
And yet, I want to be comfortable, not radical.
When I run, I pace myself. I seldom, very seldom press hard. I don't like pain. I don't like discomfort. I want to enjoy my run, not suffer through it.
Is this me through the race of life? Not wanting to face the pain? I voice shallow words without intense conversations. I hold onto the emotions that want to squeeze out of my eyes. I try to ignore the ache that is bursting within my throat. I don't want to be uncomfortable so I don't argue, I play the role of peacemaker, I don't provoke contrariness. I want to blend in.
But there is this yearning lately that pulls and nudges and sometimes yanks every desire for comfort straight right out of me.
Blending in is for the weak.
In Him I am made strong.
Complacency is without purpose.
My plans are empty but His purposes will prevail.
Yearning is for the thirsty.
He calls for the thirsty.
Today I will run harder. Thirst more. Even get a little sweaty.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Learning, Loving, Living
Sitting on the brink of a new learning year, pondering, dreaming, praying. Praying for the Greater Plan to be a part of my home. Praying that I can get out of the way often enough so as not to hinder the Greater Plan from taking place. Praying that peace will pave the way. Complicated, the plan is not. Difficult, definitely. Threads of moments, ideas, thoughts, memories, purposes, intentions, failures interwoven into a tapestry of learning, loving and living. A tapestry designed by One greater than I.
Learning. Loving. Living.
Learning from the books, the experiences, the deeper conversations. And learning from the failures. Failures that He turns into unexpected triumphs. Learning to read the written word and to pen the learned language onto paper. Learning to play with numbers and patterns and discovering a divine mathematical wisdom scattered throughout creation and the world around. Learning to know the facts and the stories behind them. Learning to decide and to reason and to discern. Learning about the One who created us to learn. And learning to trust and fully rest in Him. Learning to love like Him …
To love the Lord our God with all of our heart, soul and mind – there is no greater calling, no greater plan. To daily fall in love with Him, to lay sacrifices for Him, to worship Him, to love more and more like He does - daily. And what an excellent plan it is to grow in our love for Him, to grow in our love for each other. Is that not what Jesus spoke of when he shared the two greatest commandments? To love the Lord our God with all of our heart, soul and mind and to love our neighbour, child, spouse, stranger as ourselves? The loves are intertwined. Without one it’s hard to possess the other. Teach us to love, fill us with love, let our very beings breathe love – your love - daily as we live …
Living to learn, living to love, but also just living. Living the life of abundance, not of goods, but an abundance of Him. An abundance of Him in our every day. In the daily tasks, in the growth of the children, in the answer to a whispered prayer, in the rainbow promises. Wasn’t there a glimpse of Him in that conversation, in that priority set, in the reflection in the dew, in that cloud picture? Living to celebrate today because it is the day that He has made and I will rejoice. We will rejoice. I will lead the children to rejoice. Because He has given us life. And we will live that life in fullness of grace.
Simple really, but intriguingly intricate. A glimpse of the divine in the everyday? Could this learning year be filled with many every day moments threaded with His incredible love and abundant life? May His hand be the tailor of my home’s tapestry.
~ penned late one summer’s eve
Learning. Loving. Living.
Learning from the books, the experiences, the deeper conversations. And learning from the failures. Failures that He turns into unexpected triumphs. Learning to read the written word and to pen the learned language onto paper. Learning to play with numbers and patterns and discovering a divine mathematical wisdom scattered throughout creation and the world around. Learning to know the facts and the stories behind them. Learning to decide and to reason and to discern. Learning about the One who created us to learn. And learning to trust and fully rest in Him. Learning to love like Him …
To love the Lord our God with all of our heart, soul and mind – there is no greater calling, no greater plan. To daily fall in love with Him, to lay sacrifices for Him, to worship Him, to love more and more like He does - daily. And what an excellent plan it is to grow in our love for Him, to grow in our love for each other. Is that not what Jesus spoke of when he shared the two greatest commandments? To love the Lord our God with all of our heart, soul and mind and to love our neighbour, child, spouse, stranger as ourselves? The loves are intertwined. Without one it’s hard to possess the other. Teach us to love, fill us with love, let our very beings breathe love – your love - daily as we live …
Living to learn, living to love, but also just living. Living the life of abundance, not of goods, but an abundance of Him. An abundance of Him in our every day. In the daily tasks, in the growth of the children, in the answer to a whispered prayer, in the rainbow promises. Wasn’t there a glimpse of Him in that conversation, in that priority set, in the reflection in the dew, in that cloud picture? Living to celebrate today because it is the day that He has made and I will rejoice. We will rejoice. I will lead the children to rejoice. Because He has given us life. And we will live that life in fullness of grace.
Simple really, but intriguingly intricate. A glimpse of the divine in the everyday? Could this learning year be filled with many every day moments threaded with His incredible love and abundant life? May His hand be the tailor of my home’s tapestry.
~ penned late one summer’s eve
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